Read The Darkness that Comes Before Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Darkness that Comes Before (11 page)
“This is no jest, I assure you.”
“Against whom, then? The Fanim?” Throughout its history, the Three Seas had witnessed only two prior Holy Wars, both waged against the Schools rather than the heathens. The last, the so-called Scholastic Wars, had been disastrous for both sides. Atyersus itself had been besieged for seven years.
“We don’t know. So far Maithanet has declared only that there will be a Holy War. He has not deigned to tell anyone against whom. As I said, he’s a fiendishly cunning man.”
“So you fear another Scholastic War.” Achamian could scarcely believe he was having this conversation. The possibility of another Scholastic War, he knew,
should
horrify him, but instead his heart pounded with exhilaration. Had it come to this? Had he grown so tired of the Mandate’s futile mission that he now greeted the prospect of war against the Inrithi as a disfigured species of relief?
should
horrify him, but instead his heart pounded with exhilaration. Had it come to this? Had he grown so tired of the Mandate’s futile mission that he now greeted the prospect of war against the Inrithi as a disfigured species of relief?
“This is precisely what we fear. Once again the Cultic Priests openly denounce us, refer to us as Unclean.”
Unclean.
The Chronicle of the Tusk,
held by the Thousand Temples to be the very word of the God, had named them thus—those Few with the learning and the innate ability to work sorcery. “Cut from them their tongues,” the holy words said, “for their blasphemy is an abomination like no other . . .” Achamian’s father—who, like many Nroni, had despised the tyranny exercised by Atyersus over Nron—had beaten this belief into him. Faith may die, but her sentiments remain eternal.
The Chronicle of the Tusk,
held by the Thousand Temples to be the very word of the God, had named them thus—those Few with the learning and the innate ability to work sorcery. “Cut from them their tongues,” the holy words said, “for their blasphemy is an abomination like no other . . .” Achamian’s father—who, like many Nroni, had despised the tyranny exercised by Atyersus over Nron—had beaten this belief into him. Faith may die, but her sentiments remain eternal.
“But I’ve heard nothing of this.”
The old man leaned forward. His dyed beard was cut square like Achamian’s own but meticulously braided in the fashion of the eastern Ketyai. Achamian was struck by the incongruity of old faces and dark hair.
“But you wouldn’t have, would you now, Achamian? You’ve been in High Ainon. What priest would denounce sorcery in a nation ruled by the Scarlet Spires, hmm?”
Achamian glared at the old sorcerer.
“But this is to be expected, is it not?” He suddenly found the whole idea preposterous.
Things like this happen to other men, at other times
. “You say that this Maithanet is cunning. What better way to secure his power than by inciting hatred against those condemned by the Tusk?”
Things like this happen to other men, at other times
. “You say that this Maithanet is cunning. What better way to secure his power than by inciting hatred against those condemned by the Tusk?”
“You’re right, of course.” Nautzera had the most infuriating way of owning one’s objections. “But there’s a far more disturbing reason to believe that he’ll declare against us rather than the Fanim . . .”
“And what reason is that?”
“Because, Achamian,” a voice other than Nautzera’s replied, “there’s no way that a Holy War against the Fanim
could succeed
.”
could succeed
.”
Achamian peered into the darkness between columns. It was Simas, a wry smile splitting his snow white beard. He wore a grey vestment over his blue silk gown. Even in appearance he was water to Nautzera’s fire.
“How was your journey?” Simas asked.
“The Dreams were particularly bad,” Achamian replied, somewhat bewildered by the shift between hard speculation and light pleasantries. In what now seemed a different lifetime, Simas had been his teacher, the one to bury the innocence of a Nroni fisherman’s son in the mad revelations of the Mandate. They hadn’t spoken directly in years—Achamian had been abroad for a long time—but the ease of manner, the ability to speak without the detours of jnan, remained. “What do you mean, Simas? Why couldn’t a Holy War succeed against the Fanim?”
“Because of the Cishaurim.”
Again the Cishaurim.
“I fear I don’t follow you, old teacher. Surely it would be
easier
for the Inrithi to war against Kian, a nation with only one School—if the Cishaurim can be called such—than for them to war against all the Schools.”
easier
for the Inrithi to war against Kian, a nation with only one School—if the Cishaurim can be called such—than for them to war against all the Schools.”
Simas nodded. “On the face of things, perhaps. But think on it, Achamian. We estimate that the Thousand Temples itself has some four to five thousand Chorae, which means it could field at least as many men immune to whatever sorceries we could muster. Add to that all of the Inrithi lords who also bear Trinkets, and Maithanet could field an army of perhaps ten thousand men who would be immune to us in every way.”
In the Three Seas, Chorae were a crucial variable in the algebra of war. In so many ways the Few were like Gods compared with the masses. Only the Chorae prevented the Schools from utterly dominating the Three Seas.
“Certainly,” Achamian replied, “but Maithanet could likewise field those men against the Cishaurim. However different the Cishaurim may be, they seem to share our vulnerabilities at least.”
“Could he?”
“Why not?”
“Because between those men and the Cishaurim would stand all the armed might of Kian. The Cishaurim are not a School, old friend. They don’t stand apart, as we do, from the faith and people of their nation. While the Holy War struggled to overcome the heathen Grandees of Kian, the Cishaurim would rain ruin upon them.” Simas lowered his chin as though testing his beard against his breastbone. “Do you see?”
Achamian could see. He had dreamed of such a battle before—the Fords of Tywanrae, where the hosts of ancient Akssersia had burned in the fires of the Consult. At the mere thought of this tragic battle, images flashed before his eyes, shadowy men thrashing in waters, consumed in towering bonfires . . . How many had been lost at the fords?
“Like Tywanrae,” Achamian whispered.
“Like Tywanrae,” Simas replied, his voice both solemn and gentle. They had all shared this nightmare. The Schoolmen of the Mandate shared every nightmare.
Throughout this exchange, Nautzera had regarded them narrowly. Like a Prophet of the Tusk, his judgement was palpable—except where prophets saw sinners, Nautzera saw fools. “And as I said,” the old man remarked, “this Maithanet is shrewd, a man of intellect. Surely he knows he cannot win a Holy War against the Fanim.”
Achamian stared blankly at the sorcerer. His earlier exhilaration had fled, replaced by a cold and dank fear. Another Scholastic War . . . The thought of Tywanrae had shown him the terrifying dimensions of such a prospect.
“This is why I’ve been recalled from High Ainon? To prepare for this new Shriah’s Holy War?”
“No,” Nautzera replied decisively. “We’ve simply told you the reasons why we
fear
that Maithanet might call his Holy War against us. Ultimately, we don’t know what he plans.”
fear
that Maithanet might call his Holy War against us. Ultimately, we don’t know what he plans.”
“Indeed,” Simas added. “Between the Schools and the Fanim, the Fanim are undoubtedly the greatest threat to the Thousand Temples. Shimeh has been lost to the heathens for centuries, and the Empire is but a frail shadow of what it once was, while Kian has become the mightiest power in the Three Seas. No. It would be far more rational for the Shriah to declare the Fanim the object of his Holy War—”
“But,” Nautzera interjected, “we all know that faith is no friend to reason. The distinction between the rational and the irrational means little when one speaks of the Thousand Temples.”
“You’re sending me to Sumna,” Achamian said. “To discover Maithanet’s true intent.”
A wicked smile creased Nautzera’s dyed beard. “Yes.”
“But what good could I do? It’s been years since I’ve been to Sumna. I’ve no more contacts there.” This was true or untrue depending upon how one defined “contacts.” There was a woman he knew in Sumna—Esmenet. But that had been a long time ago.
And there was also—Achamian was arrested by the thought. Could they know?
“But this isn’t true,” Nautzera replied. “In fact,
Simas
has informed us of that student of yours who”—he paused, as though searching for a term to deal with a matter too dreadful for polite conversation—“defected.”
Simas
has informed us of that student of yours who”—he paused, as though searching for a term to deal with a matter too dreadful for polite conversation—“defected.”
Simas?
He looked to his old teacher.
Why would you tell them?
He looked to his old teacher.
Why would you tell them?
Achamian spoke cautiously. “You refer to Inrau.”
“Yes,” Nautzera replied. “And this Inrau has become, or so I am told”—again a glance at Simas—“a Shrial
Priest
.” His tone was thick with censure.
Your student, Achamian. Your betrayal.
Priest
.” His tone was thick with censure.
Your student, Achamian. Your betrayal.
“You’re too harsh, as always, Nautzera. Inrau was cursed: born with the sensitivities of the Few and yet with the sensibilities of a priest. Our ways would have killed him.”
“Ah, yes . . .
sensibilities,
” the old face replied. “But tell us, clearly if you could, your estimation of this former student. Has he crossed the pale, or might the Mandate retrieve him?”
sensibilities,
” the old face replied. “But tell us, clearly if you could, your estimation of this former student. Has he crossed the pale, or might the Mandate retrieve him?”
“Could he be made our spy? Is this what you ask?”
Inrau a spy? Obviously Simas had compounded his betrayal by not telling them anything of Inrau.
“I thought it evident,” Nautzera said.
Achamian paused, looked to Simas, whose face had become discouragingly serious.
“Answer him, Akka,” his old teacher said.
“No,” Achamian replied, turning back to Nautzera. Suddenly his heart felt a stone. “No. Inrau was born on the far side of the pale. He won’t return.”
Cold amusement—so bitter on such an old face. “Ah, Achamian, but he will.”
Achamian knew what they demanded: the sorceries, and the betrayal they would entail. He had been close to Inrau, had promised to protect him. They had been . . . close.
“No,” he replied, “I refuse. Inrau’s spirit is frail. He doesn’t have the mettle to do what you’re asking. We need someone else.”
“There is no one else.”
“Nevertheless,” he replied, only beginning to grasp the consequences of his rashness, “I refuse.”
“You refuse?” Nautzera spat. “Because this priest is a weakling? Achamian, you must stifle the mother in—”
“Achamian acts out of loyalty, Nautzera,” Simas interrupted. “Don’t confuse the two.”
“Loyalty?” Nautzera snapped. “But this is the very
heart
of the issue, Simas! What we share is incomprehensible to other men. As one we cry out in our sleep. With such a bond—like a vice!—how can loyalty to another be anything short of sedition?”
heart
of the issue, Simas! What we share is incomprehensible to other men. As one we cry out in our sleep. With such a bond—like a vice!—how can loyalty to another be anything short of sedition?”
“Sedition?” Achamian exclaimed, knowing he had to proceed carefully. Such words were like casks of wine: once unstopped, things tended to deteriorate.“You mistake me—both of you. I refuse out of loyalty
to
the Mandate. Inrau is too frail. We risk alienating the Thousand—”
to
the Mandate. Inrau is too frail. We risk alienating the Thousand—”
“Such a weak lie,” Nautzera growled. He then laughed, as though realizing that he should have expected this impertinence all along. “Schools
spy,
Achamian. We are alienated in
advance
. But you know this.” The old sorcerer turned away from him and warmed his fingers over the coals of a nearby brazier. Orange light trimmed his grand figure, sketched his narrow lines against colossal works of stone. “Tell me, Achamian, if this Maithanet and the threat of a Holy War against the Schools is the work of our—to put it mildly—elusive adversary, would not Inrau’s delicate life, or for that matter the Mandate’s fine reputation, be worth throwing into the balance?”
spy,
Achamian. We are alienated in
advance
. But you know this.” The old sorcerer turned away from him and warmed his fingers over the coals of a nearby brazier. Orange light trimmed his grand figure, sketched his narrow lines against colossal works of stone. “Tell me, Achamian, if this Maithanet and the threat of a Holy War against the Schools is the work of our—to put it mildly—elusive adversary, would not Inrau’s delicate life, or for that matter the Mandate’s fine reputation, be worth throwing into the balance?”
“
If,
Nautzera,” he replied vaguely, “then certainly.”
If,
Nautzera,” he replied vaguely, “then certainly.”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten that you numbered yourself among the sceptics. What is it you say? That we pursue
ghosts
.” He held the word in his mouth, as though it were a morsel of questionable food. “I guess, then, you would say that a
possibility,
that we’re witnessing the first signs of the No-God’s return, is outweighed by an
actuality,
the life of a defector—that rolling the dice of apocalypse is worth the pulse of a fool.”
ghosts
.” He held the word in his mouth, as though it were a morsel of questionable food. “I guess, then, you would say that a
possibility,
that we’re witnessing the first signs of the No-God’s return, is outweighed by an
actuality,
the life of a defector—that rolling the dice of apocalypse is worth the pulse of a fool.”
Yes, that was precisely how he felt. But how could he admit as much?
“I’m prepared to be sanctioned,” he tried to say evenly. But his voice! Churlish. Wounded. “
I’m
not frail.”
I’m
not frail.”
Nautzera studied his face. “Sceptics,” he snorted. “You all make the same error. You confuse us with the other Schools. But do we vie for power? Do we scurry around palaces, placing Wards and sniffing sorceries like dogs? Do we whine into the ears of Emperors or Kings? In the absence of the Consult, you confuse our actions with those who act for no purpose save that of power and its childish gratifications. You confuse us with the whores.”
Could it be? No. He’d thought it through many times. Unlike the others, those like Nautzera, he could distinguish his age from the one he dreamt night after night. He could see the difference. The Mandate was not merely poised between epochs—it was poised between dreams and waking life. When the sceptics, those who thought the Consult had abandoned the Three Seas, looked at the Mandate, they saw not a School compromised by worldly ambition but the opposite: a School not in this world at all. The “mandate,” which was the mandate of history after all, was not to wage a dead war, or to sanctify a long-dead sorcerer driven mad by that war’s horrors, but to
learn
—to live
from
the past, not in it.
learn
—to live
from
the past, not in it.
“Would you argue philosophy with me, then, Nautzera?” he asked, matching the man’s fierce glare. “Before you were too harsh, but now you’re simply too stupid.”
Nautzera blinked in astonishment.
Simas hastily interceded. “I understand your reluctance, old friend. I too have my doubts—as you know.” He looked pointedly at Nautzera, who continued to stare at Achamian in disbelief.
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